


The Johnny Thrush Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin join Dancer and Slate in investigating the would-be rockstar son of a Thrush agent-- and find themselves enmeshed in the swinging early 1967 London music scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Only World Dominiation, But I Like It!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for st_crispins for The Down the Chimney Affair #5 (2008) over on LiveJournal

The Saville Theatre vibrated with the sounds of an up-and-coming rock band rehearsing their set. The drums thumped and crashed with aching precision; the bass guitar drove the sound purposefully; the guitars wailed and screeched in tandem. It wasn't quite a dirge, yet it wasn't at all the fizzy pop one had come to expect from a group of young musicians.

April Dancer found she could groove to _anything_ these days, giving the appearance of enjoying the music when she was actually puzzling things out in her head. She would almost say that she spent far too much time posing as a model/a dancer/an actress and not enough time doing actual spying-- but her covers always let her get much closer much faster to a suspect than she would ever get were she a male. She hadn't yet decided, though, if it were an advantage that Thrush and their like tended to think more with their gonads than their brains when exposed to a "delightfully attractive" young woman. (April didn't care that Kuryakin originally used the phrase to mock her; she liked it and would keep using it, if only mentally.)

She didn't know what to make of her latest suspect, though. Oh, sure, a stage name like "Johnny Thrush" was a dead give-away, especially when all Section IV had to do to confirm his real identity was look in a recent issue of _16_ magazine. Jonathan Harcourt Islington the Third made sure everyone and their editors knew that he adopted the name "Johnny Thrush" specifically to rebel against his straight-laced old man, a supposed scion of New England society. Said old man was fairly high-up in Thrush Central; his grandfather was a founding member of the organization. (Naturally Johnny didn't tell the teen press _that_ little piece of trivia!) All indications out of Thrush was that they were going to use the Johnny Thrush Demolition Show the following evening to stage a mass take-over of the collective unsuspecting youth of Britain.

Thrush had already tested parts of their plan the previous year. In the spring, they successfully planted a subliminal device that effectively hypnotized the audience at a Honeybears concert. By fall, they had perfected a mind-control drug that could be added to paint and then absorbed through the skin of anyone who brushed against the tainted wall. Solo and Kuryakin had foiled both plots… which explained why Dancer and her partner had been assigned to stop the Johnny Thrush Demolition from actually demolitioning the audience's minds.

Still… for someone supposedly in cahoots with Thrush to take over a chunk of the world for once and for all, Johnny Thrush certainly didn't act like it. April had "been" with him for nearly a fortnight, and all she got out of him was messy kisses, the odd feel-up, and the sense that he really, really hated the Beatles for staging some sort of recording party the night of the Johnny Thrush Demolition show, thus keeping all the VIPs away from his music and lights. Not really conclusive evidence of anything, really-- as Mr. Waverly reminded her over and over and over….

The song didn't end so much as run out of steam. April stopped dancing, bringing her attention back to the situation at hand. Joel-the-Drummer tucked his sticks in the back pocket of his jeans and wandered off. Keith-the-Bassist unplugged his instrument, tossed it in its case, and all but ran out of the theatre. Ron-the-Rhythm-Guitarist slung his axe behind him, swaggered off stage, and pinched April's butt as he exited up the main aisle.

"Ron! Dude! Keep your hands to yourself!" Johnny said into the microphone.

Ron flipped him off as he pushed through the doors.

April sighed, then gave Johnny a rueful smile as she joined him on stage. "Good thing that part of me is insured."

 

Johnny kissed her on the cheek. "Too bad we can't attach a bear trap back there-- it would serve him right." He placed his Stratocaster on its stand, caught April's hand in his, and tugged it so she would get the hint to join him sitting on the stage's edge. He looked out on the empty seats wistfully. "It all seems so pointless…."

"Was that why rehearsal broke up so abruptly?"

He shook his head, his long brown hair falling in front of his face. He tucked a few strands behind an ear with his free hand as he explained, "Just couldn't hit the right groove. No light show, you know."

"Say, where _is_ the lighting crew? I thought they were going to be here today."

"Got pulled at the last minute for another… gig, apparently." Johnny's lip curled up in disgust. "I hate having to use union help."

April went along with his explanation for the moment. "Yeah, awful, that. They'll be here tomorrow, though, won't they?"

"Oh, I'm sure they won't miss it for the world. Unlike most of the Important People…."

"You're not still bothered by that Beatle thing, are you?"

"Hell yeah, I am. McCartney himself had promised to come to the show tomorrow-- you know they get in free, 'cause their manager owns the place now-- then he got his stupid recording party idea, and now no one's going to be here."

"I thought it was a sell-out."

"Nobody important. Well, unless you count Peter Noone. And, really, who counts _him_ who isn't a 12-year-old girl?"

April succeeded in _not_ rolling her eyes over a now-tired line. Playing the dutiful girlfriend to the hilt, she cooed, "Oh, darling, don't get so down and out." She waved her hand out toward the rows and rows of empty seats. "Those seats will be filled tomorrow night, and the Beatles will be kicking themselves afterwards for missing the scene."

"God, I hope you're right, April-- 'cause right now, I feel it's going to fail miserably and we'll be the laughing stock of London."

"You're being too hard on yourself, Johnny--" A flash of light caught her eye; the flash was repeated several times. Recognizing the signal from her partner, she added,"-- and I've got to get to a shoot. I'll see you tonight, ok?"

"Yeah, ok-- the Scotch? 10 o'clock?"

"See you then." She gave him a firm kiss on the mouth. She slid off the stage, grabbed her kicky robin's egg blue coat and matching purse, and gave Johnny a final wave before trotting up the aisle to the exit.

April paused in the foyer to bundle up against the February cold. As she opened the door to leave, she nearly bumped into a slight brunette wearing too much make-up, the latest mod fashions, and a sneer that gave her face a cruel look. "Oh, hi, April," the girl said without any enthusiasm.

"Oh, hi, Nancy. Here to try to steal my boyfriend?"

"As if I'd want _your_ sloppy seconds."

"Funny, from what I hear, you take _everyone's_ sloppy seconds."

"Bitch."

"I know you are, but what am I?" April pushed past her, calling behind her, "I'll know if you mess with him, so… don't," as the door shut.

She watched Nancy retreat into the theatre proper for a moment, then stomped her foot, jammed her hands in her coat pockets, and stalked off around the corner. She really, _really_ hoped that Nancy was Thrush, because she hated to think that someone of her sex could be _that_ unpleasant just on general principles. Unfortunately, nothing connected Nancy to Thrush… yet. Maybe nothing would. But she could still hope….

A nondescript late-model sedan pulled up next to her and honked. April glanced at the driver, smiled, and slid into the car.

Her partner grinned. "Hallo, love, going my way?"

"It all depends on which way that way is, don't you think?"

"I think we're going to HQ. The Old Man wants to see us." Mark Slate maneuvered the car back into traffic.

"Oh, dear."

"No, it's good, in theory. We're getting some back-up."

"Back-up? But nothing's happened yet! And, if you want to be honest about it all, from what we've discovered so far, we're wasting our time. Unless you happened to find something while prowling around the catwalks just now…?"

"Nothing but cobwebs, I'm afraid. Nevertheless, Waverly is bringing in an additional pair of agents."

"Any idea who?"

"Afraid not. We'll find out soon enough, though."

"Unfortunately." April sighed. Mark patted her hand, knowing how frustrated she felt about the assignment. They rode the rest of the way to HQ in a companionable silence.

**  
Johnny perked up upon hearing the door open and seeing a girl sashay down the main aisle. As she approached, though, he sighed again and stood, reaching for his guitar for both comfort and a physical barrier. He knew the girl, all right, and he didn't want to deal with her.

"Hey, Jonathan," Nancy called, trotting up the steps to the stage proper.

"What are you doing here, Julie? Here to gloat or something?"

"Shh! I told you, I'm 'Nancy' now, at least while we're here on this assignment."

"Fine. I'll call you 'Nancy' if you'll call me 'Johnny.'"

"Why would I want to do that? Your name is _Jonathan._ It's a fine old name, dear brother, carried through several generations of loyal Thrush servants."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not in Thrush."

"Yes, I've noticed. But you soon will be. You're already cooperating with us, after all."

"Well, yeah, 'Do it or die' said with a gun pointed at my head can be persuasive."

"And once you see the benefits of our little operation, you'll join up full time."

"The hell I will."

"Daddy was reluctant, too, at first, or so Grandaddy said. But… look how important he is now!"

Johnny gave his sister an annoyed look, then struck a chord on his guitar. "Sis, the only place worth being important in is the music world." He played a long, biting solo filled with both yearning and hatred. Nancy, despite herself, found herself drawn into the music. She watched his fingers fly over the fretboard in awe for just a moment of what her big brother could do with such a common instrument.

As the music ended, though, she shook her head to snap back to her reality. "You wouldn't have to give up the band, you know, if you formally joined the family business. We actually need rock musicians."

"Huh?" It was a new argument, and Johnny didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Sure. Rock is the big pop culture, isn't it? We want to be influential in that area. What our generation is grooving on today will become the golden oldies of tomorrow-- and will remain a big inspiration as we reach middle age."

"Wow. And here am I thinking that Thrush wanted to be king of the world before the end of the decade."

"It's always best to have several irons in the fire. Besides, we know that U.N.C.L.E. has at least influence, if not actual agents, in several bands already. The Honeybears, Nigel and Patrick, Every Mother's Son, Sonny and Cher, Speedy Delivery Service…." The backstage door opened; a nattering of voices and the rattling of supplies told them both they were no longer alone. Nancy put a finger to her lips. "Shhh, Jonathan. No talk of dissent around the hired help, ok? I can only do so much to keep you alive…."

Johnny stuck his tongue out at her and packed up his Stratocaster.  
**

Waverly flipped on the slide projector, dimming the lights just enough so that both the slides and the written background Solo and Kuryakin were perusing could be seen equally well. "Not only has Mr. Islington publicly distanced himself from his father, he but also has supported the story privately. Everything both Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate have observed suggests that, at worst, he is being manipulated by Thrush. He certainly isn't _in_ the organization."

"Uh huh." Solo scrutinized Johnny Thrush's photo on the screen, seeking character hints in the tilt of the mouth, the squint of the eyes.

"The bug reports certainly look clean. No hint of wrong-doing, no hint of clever codes masking a more sinister information exchange." Kuryakin looked at his superior over the rim of his glasses. "Most curious."

"Agreed."

"It's a cover-up for something bigger," Solo suggested.

"I concur." An intercom beep interrupted Waverly. He flipped the talk switch. "Yes?"

"Agents Dancer and Slate to see you, sir," chirped the receptionist.

"Send them in." He glanced at the office door; the other agents swiveled their chairs to face the entrance as well.

Dancer and Slate entered, April breaking into a grin. "Hello, boys!" She plunked herself down next to Solo.

Mark settled next to Kuryakin. "Gentlemen," he greeted, taking off his battered corduroy hat and placing it neatly on the table in front of him in deference to Waverly. "Come to join us on our wild goose chase, I see."

"Actually," said Solo, "we're here to see if there's a hound dog behind that goose."

"Well, I certainly hope there is." April brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "I'd hate to think I've been doing the old Model Girlfriend act for nothing."

Napoleon nodded sympathetically. "We've read all the reports to date. Why don't you tell us of your overall impressions?"

April shrugged. "Not much to say, really. Johnny is a brilliant guitarist with a chip on his shoulder bigger than his feet. He refuses to talk about his family, for one thing, not even when in an altered state of mind. Which he is frequently, I might add."

"Man drinks like a fish and tokes up like a chimney," Mark threw in.

"The only thing he hates more than his dad right now seems to be Paul McCartney, but that's just professional frustration speaking as far as I can tell." April sighed. "All my instincts tell me that he's either an actual Innocent or he's a consummate actor."

"Judging from his stage presence," Mark added, "I really doubt he could act his way out of a damp paper bag." His gaze met Napoleon's. "I've been over that theatre every day this past week with a fine toothed comb. Nothing has been added or changed. Not even any bugs! It's for all intents and purposes a normal theatre with a normal band getting ready for a normal performance tomorrow night."

"Thrush tends not to move in until the last moment," Kuryakin points out.

"Yeah, but they _do_ leave some advance clues. The lack of listening devices I find highly unusual."

"Me, too," Solo agreed. "That more than anything tells me it's a smokescreen."

"But for what?" Mark wondered.

Waverly harrumphed. "Exactly what I want you all to find out. You may continue your discussion in here. I, however, have a meeting to attend." He rose and left.

Solo looked at his fellow agents. "Any thoughts?"

April sighed. "I think that whatever is going on involves the music scene, even if it doesn't involve Johnny directly. There's been such a buzz in the clubs all week about the Beatles' recording party tomorrow night-- a buzz that seems bigger than the session itself is going to be."

"And, to be fair, people have been talking about Johnny's show, too, along with Jimi Hendrix, the Pink Floyd, and Cream. It's like San Francisco, in that respect-- a lot of innovative music being made that has everyone giddy with delight." Slate popped his hat back on. "Doesn't mean a thing."

Kuryakin tucked his glasses back in his pocket. "Still… it doesn't hurt checking it out, does it?"

Solo smiled. "Ah, your… source for all things Beatle-ish. Say hi for me, okay?"

Illya ignored his comment, and instead looked pointedly at April. "You've been part of the milieu for the past fortnight-- come with me and help me interview my 'source.'" Standing, he gestured grandly for her to precede him out of the room.

Napoleon stood as well. "Let's go check out that theatre again, Mark. I want to make doubly sure all our bases are covered."

**

Mark pulled the car into the alley behind the Saville Theatre. "Strange, that," he commented, indicating the van parked in front of the theatre's loading dock. "They had deliveries this morning. And aren't due for more until 11 a.m. tomorrow."

"So much for Thrush not doing anything at the theatre. Let's park and-- wait."

"Why?"

Two burly men had come out of the theatre. They made for the back of the van, returning back inside a few moments later with hands full of electronic equipment. "I'll take the van," Solo said, opening the car door. "Go park."

**

Kuryakin beelined for the small blonde who was savoring a cup of tea in the EMI canteen. As they got closer, Dancer recognized the girl as Sandy Ludlow, the bassist for the popular all-girl group the Honeybears.

Sandy jumped up, engulfing Kuryakin in a big hug. "Illya!" she squealed. "It's so good to see you again!"

"Yes, of course." He broke out of the hug gently. "This is April," he said by way of introduction.

"Oh, hallo. I've seen you around a bit. You're seeing Johnny Thrush, aren't you?"

"Sort of," April agreed, sitting down next to Illya and across the table from Sandy.

Kuryakin leaned across the table and spoke quietly. "April is with my organization."

"Oh. Oh! You don't think anything is going on with Johnny, do you?"

"Why don't you tell me of anything… strange going on, Sandra? Any people who aren't what they seem, any events that seem curious, that sort of thing."

Sandy chewed on her lip a moment, thinking. "You know… everything is weird these days, Illya. There are so many new drugs about, and so many tricksters and baddies trying to get an 'in' with the Boys… you need a programme to keep track of everyone."

"Anyone in particular stand out?"

"Well, there's the Fool, of course. They're clothing designers in theory. Haven't seen them turn anything out yet, but they've got Lennon's interest. Magic Alex, too. He's Greek and claims to be an inventor. Lennon believes him, of course, but considering all that Lennon digests these days, well, he's not exactly thinking straight."

"Anyone bothering McCartney?" April asked.

"Just the usual groupies. Oh, and Nancy, but Nancy's bothering _everyone_ with the right equipment, no matter their marital status or sexual preference."

"I've noticed that, too."

"How long has she been around?" Illya asked.

"Um… not very, really. Perhaps the first of the year? A different boy every week. She's been working her way up through the ranks, too. My bandmate Meg likens it to climbing the corporate ladder with unprintable benefits."

"And she's been with…?"

"Perhaps it's better to ask who she _hasn't_ been with. Seriously, there's been so many, and I've been so busy in the studio that I've not been keeping track."

"Surely one name….?"

"Well… I know she tried both my brother and Mr. Epstein. Didn't get anywhere, of course, Michael's still in the honeymoon stage and Mr. Epstein…" She lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. "Mr. Epstein doesn't like girls in that sort of way." She sat up straighter suddenly as a thought came to her. "Oh, and Eddie! He absolutely shagged her, and it was a shock, too, because we all thought he was happy with his missus."

Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. "And who's this Eddie?"

"The manager of our fan club and sometimes a roadie, too."

"Where can we find him?" April asked.

"At the moment? Not sure. He should be at the Scotch tonight, though. He usually is on Thursdays."

April tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You know, Illya, it might not be a bad idea if you came to the Scotch tonight, too, get the lay of the land, so to speak."

"Yes, of course." He looked at Sandy. "Is Nancy only interested in behind-the-scenes personnel?"

"Oh, goodness, no, she's gone on to actual band members. She had Keith Moon last week, at least according to my sister, and this week she's been all over Nicky Jones of the Livelyhood like a cheap suit."

"I see. Perhaps you could make sure that 'Nigel and Patrick' can get into the Scotch tonight? And perhaps introduce them around to Nancy's previous lovers?"

"Done!"

A tall, skinny dark-haired young man peeked around the canteen door. "Hey, Sands-- they're waiting for you! Break time is over!"

"Yes, Michael," she called before bidding the agents farewell.

Kuryakin decided he didn't like the anticipatory grin on his fellow agent's face. "What are you on about?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing much. Just that I missed the Nigel and Patrick show the first time around. Oh, I saw the kinescope of the TV show afterwards, of course, but not the same as seeing it in person. Not at all."

"Giant toaster," Illya countered.

April wrinkled her nose. "You're no fun anymore."

**

Slate had to park several blocks away; he got back to the theatre in time to see the white van peel out of the alley. His communicator began beeping at the same time. He ducked into a doorway and opened the channel. "Slate here."

"It's Solo, Mark. I'm still in the van. I'm going to ride to their destination and see what I can find out from the source, as it were. I'll keep you informed."

"Righto, Napoleon. Channel 'F' out." Mark tucked his communicator back into his coat and sauntered down the alley to the stage door. Using a key he had duplicated the previous week, he unlocked the door and eased it open. The hinges, recently oiled, made nary a sound. He slipped into the building and eased the door closed again. Pausing, he listened for building occupants. He could hear nothing but the heating unit kick in. Nevertheless, he flitted from wardrobe rack to prop closet, from prop closet to standing bass drum, from standing bass drum to catwalk ladder. He scooted up the ladder to the catwalk, stepping onto the metal gangway with a light step. Creeping along, he soon reached the first bank of stage lights.

Beneath him, he noted a Thrush goon sitting in a director's chair reading a James Bond book. _Just for show, or is he guarding something worthwhile?_ he wondered as he quickly set his communicator to "vibrate." He then inspected the light grid. Sure enough, the system boasted several new, unauthorized black boxes that sat snuggly between light and plug. Mark detached a light from a box with a swift tug; the box itself, however, was attached to the grid with several screws and a clamp. He unplugged the box from the power socket, then dug out a miniature screwdriver from his coat and took care of the other connections in short order. As he pulled the box away from the grid, he noted a pair of tiny wires that enhanced the connection. As far as he could tell, the box itself had no power source. As the grid itself was powered down, he felt it safe to simply yank the wires out of their soldered connection. Nothing happened; Mark let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Tucking the box under his arm, he made his way back down to ground level. He noticed several cans of paint stacked haphazardly by the exit door; a glance at the lids revealed they had been recently opened (and dripped over the side, too). Shrugging, Slate grabbed the top can. He eased the door open, slithered back outside, and casually but quickly headed back to his car.

He had just dumped his haul into the boot when his communicator vibrated. "Yes, Napoleon?" he said upon opening the channel.

"I'm going to keep this channel open-- use it as a tracking device. I will probably need back-up. Solo out."

Mark hopped into the car, popped the glove compartment, and pulled out the hand-held tracker. Connecting the communicator to it, he soon determined the general direction where the section head could be found. He started the engine and peeled out of the parking space.


	2. Chess Pieces In Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuryakin and Slate hit a club, while the real Thrush operative makes her move on her real target.

Solo waited for five minutes' silence before escaping out of the back of the truck. (A small file popped the latch without any signs of force.) Dusk could not hide the low slung, modern-looking office building the truck had been parked in front of. He toyed briefly with using the front door, but decided that it would be better to find any lighted offices before making a bold barge-in. He circled the building.  
  
On the east side, he spotted lights on. He approached carefully, ducking down at the last minute. He could hear the murmur of conversation, but couldn't make out anything. Risking a brief look, he popped up only to find that the window was frosted. He continued on his circuit of the building, finding no other office with lights on. Once back at the front, he pulled out his file and jimmied the main door open.  
  
He could tell his destination by the raised voices. He casually strolled down the corridor, acting as if he belonged there. Once at the door of the lighted office, he dug a small, collapsible sound amplifier cup out of his wallet and, flapping it into three dimensions, he placed it against the door seam.  
  
**  
  
"Oh, Daddy, it's only business, not--" Nancy broke off suddenly. A green light flashed in an upper corner of the office, indicating that _someone_ unauthorized lurked just outside. She pointed out the light to her father, who rolled his eyes before nodding acknowledgement. "--the end of the world!" she finished.  
  
"I'm still not comfortable with the concept. They're just a bunch of stupid young people. If they don't have anything better to do than attend a concert, what do we want with them?" Jonathan Harcourt Islington Jr. folded his arms across his chest, as much an indication that he disapproved of his daughter's actions as he disapproved faking a conversation for nosy ears.  
  
"Oh, believe me, the Johnny Thrush concert is the most important thing we've ever co-opted." Nancy made a gagging gesture, then reached for the intercom on the desk She pressed a black button, which set a tiny red light flashing. Nodding with approval, she continued, "Once we take over the youth, we take over the world."  
  
"Yes, of course. The youth of today, though-- I'd like to buy them all a bath."  
  
"Oh, daddy, you're funny."  
  
The sound of pounding footsteps-- two soon joined by three, punctuated by the odd "Hey you!" and "Stop!" interrupted them. Nancy waited for a moment. A knock on the door followed by a muffled, "All clear-- he escaped, though," brought a smile to the girl's face.  
  
"Sloppy, Princess, sloppy. Not supposed to let an U.N.C.L.E. agent go that easily."  
  
Nancy shrugged. "Oh, don't be so old-fashioned, Daddy. It's all part of the greater plan. Whatever U.N.C.L.E. idiot that was, he'll go back to his superiors convinced that the action will be at Jonathan's show tomorrow night. Meanwhile, we'll have everything in place to bring several of the biggest names in popular music over to our side. Once we own the Beatles and their friends, we'll own an entire generation."  
  
"I still don't have to like it. Too… long term. Too much left to chance."  
  
"You have to move with the times, Daddy." Nancy planted a kiss on Jonathan's cheek. "See you at lunch tomorrow?"  
  
**  
  
"Of course it was a set-up," Solo said several hours later, raising a pint of Guinness to his lips. The four agents had regrouped at the pub that doubled as an alternate entrance to U.N.C.L.E. HQ London. They had a commandeered a booth in the back room, where they could discuss the assignment in private while still grabbing a bite to eat. "I wouldn't have gotten away from them so easily, otherwise."  
  
"They certainly pulled up short once they reached the main entrance," Slate confirmed.  
  
"It's like they're taunting us," Dancer commented, "Rubbing it in our faces that they're leading us on."  
  
"Indeed." Mark polished off his hamburger. "We've checked with Section IV-- the only known father-daughter pair working in the U.K. right now are French."  
  
Napoleon added, "In fact, there's only one known American Thrush operative of any note over here at the moment, and that's Johnny Thrush's father. According to the fan magazines, Johnny is an only child-- and what we know of the family otherwise doesn't indicate anything different."  
  
"So we're actually still in the dark about everything," April concluded. "Piffle."  
  
Kuryakin picked some chips off Dancer's plate. "It can still benefit to investigate the Scotch patrons this evening."  
  
Solo nodded. "It's not like we can do anything else until Section IV determines the building ownership, or until Section III finishes their analysis of the items Mark liberated from the theatre. And even then, we'll probably not be any better off. So, Mark and Illya, you're getting the band back together, so to speak. April--"  
  
"I'm meeting Johnny there at 10."  
  
"Okay, then. I'll get a team together and we'll watch the outside, see who comes and goes, that kind of thing." He sighed. "Best we can do for now, I think."  
  
**  
  
April arrived at the Scotch of Saint James promptly at 10 p.m., resplendent in a gold lame mini dress and matching boots. She found Johnny already a sheet to the wind, sitting by himself at a table for 4 with a full glass of whiskey and coke in front of him and snarling at anyone who tried to join him. "Bad vibes tonight?" she asked lightly, pulling a chair around to better talk into his ear.  
  
"It's not fair, April, just not fair! I try my damndest to stay out of the family business, and I still get sucker-- oh, shit." Johnny buried his head on his arms.  
  
"Hmm?" April, momentarily puzzled at Johnny's reaction, frowned upon seeing Nancy and her current boy join them. "Hey, this is a private affair!" she warned.  
  
"Good. I like it private." Nancy waved a hand at her date. "This is Nicky Jones-- you know, front man of the Livelyhood? Nicky, this is April Paris, unfortunately. I'd stay away from her-- she's nothing but trouble. I mean, look what she's done to Johnny Thrush, and she's not been here even five minutes."  
  
Nicky, a slight young man with a shock of ginger hair, gave April a cocky grin. "Sounds like a challenge, darling, you game?"  
  
"I could be persuaded."  
  
"And who's sloppy seconds are you going after?" Nancy pointed out.  
  
"Ah, Nancy, we've not done it yet, so I'm still the first course!" Nicky chuckled. "Hey, Johnny, what's with you?"  
  
Johnny placed a possessive arm around April's shoulder. "She's with me."  
Nicky gave April an apologetic look; she returned it with a half-smile and a slight eyebrow raise.  
  
Nancy made a face. "You're not going to get anywhere with the awful taste in women you have."  
  
"Takes an awful woman to know one, doesn't it?"  
  
"Oh, sure, and you're God's gift to womankind."  
  
"Yeah, well I'm not sleeping with everyone and their dog for business reasons!"  
  
"You leave my bedroom habits out of this!" Nancy hissed, waggling a well-manicured finger in Johnny's face.  
  
"Why should I?" Johnny loosened his grip on April's shoulder, to better stick his own finger in Nancy's face. "You might as well wear a sandwich board advertising your services, the way you flaunt yourself around!" He grabbed his drink, slammed it back, and quickly signaled for another.  
  
Nicky caught April's eye and jerked his head; she nodded and joined him in slipping away from the table. "I don't want to stay away long-- he's got a show tomorrow night and I don't want him to get too hungover for it."  
  
"We'll just take a quick tool around the floor, chat up a few people, and let them get it out of their systems. God, they fight like brother and sister."  
  
"A brother and sister that really hate each other," April agreed. She looked back at them-- they were both in each other's faces, arguing over who knew what-- and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. They had similar coloring, similar noses… what if they _were_ siblings? That would put that overheard conversation of Napoleon's in a whole new light, wouldn't it?  
  
"Ah, let them have at it. They'll either kill each other or shag each other. In any case, not our worry at the moment." Nicky placed a hand on the small of April's back and gently urged her across the room.  
  
**  
  
Mark and Illya meanwhile, had arrived in matching suits and turtlenecks. Sandy waited for them in the foyer and immediately introduced them to several people as their musical alter-egos. Since many of Nancy's former boyfriends weren't around, though, she eventually brought them over to the table where her brother, sister-in-law, and fan club manager sat. "Michael, Meg, you remember Nigel and Patrick, don't you?"  
  
"Yes, of course, good to see you both again." Michael shook both their hands, playing along as per his sister's earlier request.  
  
"Hello, you two," Meg added, giving them both a wave.  
  
"Boys," Sandy continued, "This is our fan club manager, Eddie Aldritch. Eddie, these are Nigel Chumbly and Patrick Doherty, of 'Nigel and Patrick' fame. You know, that cover of my song 'Waiting' that was in the charts last autumn."  
  
"Oh, yeah, pleased to meet you." Eddie shook their hands briefly, then resumed his rather intent study of Nancy in media argument across the room.  
  
Mark and Illya sat down, both intrigued by Eddie's behavior. "What's with him, then?" Mark wondered, keeping in character by keeping his tone casual.  
  
Sandy shrugged, "I don't know-- it's kind of creepy, isn't it?"  
  
"Ever since he slept with Nancy…." Michael said.  
  
Meg gasped. "He didn't!"  
  
"Did."  
  
"No wonder Shannon's so pissy these days….."  
  
"Shannon is Eddie's wife," Sandy explained.  
  
Illya asked, "Is he like that all the time?"  
  
"No, just when Nancy's around. He's not the only one, either. Everyone else she's slept with acts just like that whenever she appears somewhere. It's like they're mesmerized." Michael shuddered. "I don't like it at all."  
  
"Don't blame you, mate." Mark and Illya exchanged meaningful glances. Illya nodded once and caught Sandy's hand in his. "Come on, I think I need to meet her." He pulled her away from the table.  
  
Mark, meanwhile, made an excuse and ducked off toward the w .c. Fortunately, the storage closet was on the way, so he checked the clearness of the coast before slipping into the tight space. He dug out his communicator to report into Solo.  
  
**  
  
Nancy stormed away from her brother's table, literally crashing into Sandy as she and Illya approached. "Hey, watch it!' Sandy squeaked.  
  
"Oh, sorry. Johnny makes me so mad sometimes…" She noticed Illya standing patiently by the blonde. "And who's this?"  
  
"Patrick Doherty. You know, 'Nigel and Patrick'?"  
  
"Pleased," Illya said, offering his hand.  
  
Nancy brushed it with hers. "Nigel and Patrick, eh? Nice, but not important enough. Have either of you seen Nicky Jones anywhere?"  
  
Illya gestured behind him. "Over there, I think, with that model bird."  
  
"Great! Thanks!" She hurried off.  
  
"Wow!" Sandy exclaimed, watching Nancy storm toward Nicky and April. "I've never seen her that blasé about a boy before."  
  
"Most curious indeed." Illya watched her latch onto Nicky. "Only one hapless victim at a time, I suppose…."  
  
**  
  
"Can I have your number, darling?" Nicky pulled out a small black book and a pencil stub from his jacket pocket. "We could perhaps have lunch tomorrow…."  
  
"Sure." She grabbed the book from him, then opened her purse, making a show of trying to find the scrap of paper with the hotel phone number on it. She accidentally on purpose dropped everything on the floor. Apologizing for her clumsiness, she squatted to pick it all back up. Nicky squatted next to her; as he helped, she slipped a tiny homing device onto his jacket sleeve. She then jammed everything else back into her purse, scribbled the phone number in his book, and returned the slim volume and pencil stub back to him.  
  
"Nicky! Get away from that dog! You might get fleas!" Nancy exclaimed, grasping him firmly by the elbow.  
  
"Just trying to help, darling, that's all."  
  
"Yeah, well I need help with my bra strap, so come on." She all but yanked him away.  
  
Nicky mimed that he would call April as he was Nancy-handled out of the room.  
  
April sighed, looked around for Johnny, and saw he had passed out at his table, easily half a dozen empty liquor glasses in front of him. She sighed more deeply, knowing that she would be spending the rest of the evening trying to sober him up just enough so his tongue would finally loosen.  
  
**  
  
Mark returned to the table about the same time Illya and Sandy did. "Say, Eddie, you're not looking so well," he commented.  
  
Eddie's attention remained firmly on Nancy as she and Nicky made their way out. Once she disappeared from sight, he shook himself and smiled wanly at the others. "Sorry. Did I miss something?"  
  
"Well--" began Meg.  
  
"Say, old thing, you sure you're feeling all right?" Mark asked, placing a chummy arm around Eddie's wiry shoulders. "You look rather peaked. Don't you think Eddie here looks peaked, Patrick?"  
  
"Oh, absolutely, Nigel."  
  
  
Eddie looked thoughtful. "Well, I haven't quite been feeling myself lately. Especially at night. I lose track of time so easily…."  
  
"Ah, yes, know the feeling well, don't I, Patrick?"  
  
"You certainly do," Illya agreed, having no idea what Mark was going on about.  
  
"It's a vitamin deficiency," Mark said.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Strewth! My uncle's a GP, yeah? Shot me up with several doses of B14, and I was right as rain."  
  
"Sounds good. Perhaps I should see him."  
  
"Happy to set you up. Tonight, in fact."  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
"Oh, sure, always drop by after a night at the club. Keeps the hangover away, know what I mean?"  
  
"I guess--"  
  
"Super! Come on, old thing, he's expecting us. You, too, Patrick. You're looking a little pale yourself." Mark stood, helping Eddie to his feet.  
  
"Guess that's my cue, Sandra…." Illya leaned over, as if giving her a kiss on the cheek. "We'll take good care of him," he breathed before dutifully brushing his lips against her.  
  
**  
  
April leaned the semi-conscious Johnny against the building wall as she tipped the valet driver who had brought her car around. The valet helped her maneuver him into the passenger seat. She gave the valet another pound in appreciation, then hopped into the driver's side and took off.  
  
Johnny's even breathing-- punctuated by the odd snore-- indicated he had fallen back asleep. April dug out her communicator and, at a red light, opened the channel to Solo. "I'm taking Johnny home," she reported. "He may or may not be tanked enough to talk. I can only hope. Oh, I planted a homing device on Nicky Jones. He's apparently Nancy's latest victim."  
  
"Ah, we were wondering who that may be. I've got a team following the signal. Wherever that young man ends up, we will be there."  
  
"Oh, good. Any updates from our toppermost of the poppermost?"  
  
"They've got one of Nancy's previous boyfriends in custody and are bringing them in to HQ for a thorough exam. Apparently he was acting very strangely when Nancy was in the building."  
  
"And not in a 'oh my god she's going to cuckold me again' kind of way, I take it."  
  
Solo chuckled. "Let me know if you find out anything, April. Channel 'F' out."  
  
She tucked her communicator back in her purse.  
  
**  
  
Nicky gave the low-slung building exterior the once-over. "This is where you live?"  
  
Nancy giggled. "Don't be silly, it's where I _work_."  
  
"Oh, a little bit of the how's-your-neighbor on the boss' desk?"  
  
"Something like that. Come on." She linked arms with him and unlocked the main door. She brought him through the deserted reception area and down the main corridor. Pausing finally in front of an ornate wooden door, she said. "Go ahead-- pretend to be the man in charge. I'll be the most dutiful of secretaries…." She gave him a torrid tongue kiss to emphasize her point.  
  
Nicky had to take a deep breath before eking out, "Right then. I'm looking forward to the… dictation." He eased the door open and slipped inside.  
  
Nancy counted to five. At "two," she heard the inevitable "what the--"; at "four" she heard the expected "you're not using that on---". At "five" she hugged herself with pleasure before retreating to the observation room next door. She always loved the initial conditioning session, even if she couldn't attend in person. She plopped herself in the recliner that faced the one-way window, settling in for what would surely be great entertainment.


	3. It's A Family Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thrush plot thickens... which the Thrush's dad doesn't take kindly to.

April threw Johnny into his flat, resting for a moment against the doorjamb as he stumbled into the bathroom. She listened for the retching to stop before joining him. She gathered his long hair into a pony tail, securing it with a rubber band that was laying on the wash basin. She then grabbed the glass, filled it with water, and offered it to him.  
  
Johnny rinsed his mouth and handed the glass back. "Thanks."  
  
"You're very welcome. Feeling better?"  
  
"I feel awful. And it's not just from the drink." He staggered to his feet and stumbled into the sitting room, flopping on the sofa with a loud thud. April parked herself on a rickety footstool by his head. "God, she's evil."  
  
"Who? Nancy?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, she's certainly bitchy, but evil…?"  
  
"Definitely evil. There's more to her than meets the eye."  
  
"Really? Does she have an STD or something?"  
  
"She has a hankering for world domination." His cheeks puffed up; he looked like he was going to vomit again. April ran for a wastebasket, placing it by him just as he leaned over to barf again. She retrieved a wet washcloth from the bathroom and a bottle of ginger ale from the kitchen, offering both to him with a sympathetic smile.  
  
He wiped his face off, sipped the soda, and struggled to sit up. "Thanks, April."  
  
"So what's this about Nancy and world domination?"  
  
Johnny frowned. "I shouldn't have said anything."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Family business. I hate talking about family business."  
  
"Family business? But I thought you were an only child."  
  
"I wish I were. I have a younger sister, and she's been working her way through the British pop elite like the plague."  
  
"But why?"  
  
Johnny shrugged. "World domination."  
  
"Isn't that exaggerating the situation at all?"  
  
"I only wish. Unfortunately, I come from a long line of evil. Despite all my attempts to escape, I am caught in the horrible web of half-truths and dastardly plans." He wiped his face off again. "I've already said too much."  
  
"I think you've had too much to drink. Why not relax a little? Let the drink get out of your system. I'll put on a record." April crossed over to the turntable in the corner and slapped on a copy of "Between the Buttons." She cranked the volume to a reasonably high level before returning to Johnny's side. "I can help you," she assured him quietly.  
  
"How?"  
  
"I could introduce you to my uncle."  
  
"Your… Oh!" His expression brightened. "I'd like that very much."  
  
"Let's go now, before anyone's the wiser." She helped him to his feet; they left the record playing as they quietly snuck out of the flat.  
  
**  
  
April spent most of the night assisting Solo with questioning Johnny; both agents felt the strain of the all-nighter as they joined their partners in the conference room as the sun rose. Solo helped himself to a cup of coffee from the waiting carafe. "All right, what do we have?"  
  
"The devices in the lighting grid has two purposes," Mark reported. "First, to function as the subharmonic generators. The lab has been unable to determine what-- if any-- message is to be transmitted. They're theorizing that the subharmonics are there just to throw us off."  
  
"Like everything else involving the Johnny Thrush Demolition," Kuryakin commented.  
  
"It's the second function that's interesting. The device increases the ambient temperature exponentially. Combined with the fresh paint-- which, although it has traces of the chemical compounds used in that mass hallucinogen last autumn, doesn't actually have the hallucinogen itself-- it creates a bloody huge fire hazard."  
  
"Which very well could be one of the things that 'Nancy' is holding over her brother," April theorized. "It turns out that Johnny Thrush doesn't like his sister much, either. She's apparently a rising star in Thrush, and has been working her way through the pop royalty in order to mind control them."  
  
Kuryakin took up the narration. "It's quite a powerful control, too. Our team of psychologists are still working on breaking the hold on Mr. Aldritch. They report, though, that a lot of the conditioning focuses on Nancy herself. Her presence requires the conditioned person to follow her every move. Presumably, there are also vocal or physical signals that Nancy gives to order the conditioned person to bend to her will."  
  
"Nasty business, all around." Solo surmised. "Especially since Nicky Jones is currently somewhere in that Thrush office building I discovered yesterday."  
  
Dancer groaned. "I didn't want to hear that. He's such a nice guy. A little flirty, a little short, but all in all really charming."  
  
"Whatever hold Thrush has on him, it will be only temporary," Kuryakin noted.  
  
"Still…"  
  
Solo brought everyone's attention back to the matter at hand by asking, "Thoughts for next actions?"  
  
"April and I should definitely be in attendance tonight at the Johnny Thrush Demolition show, along with a team of appropriately-clad agents." Slate waved the lab report for emphasis. "If nothing else, we can prevent a fire of magnificently horrible proportions."  
  
"I'll get Johnny home safely, and double-check the bugs in his flat, just in case his sister comes by to gloat," April added. "I'll also stick with him most of the afternoon and evening." Kuryakin gave her a questioning look; she glared at him and added, "A girl's got to get her beauty sleep, you know."  
  
Napoleon smirked at his partner's sour expression. "Say, Illya, do you think your connection can get us into that Beatles recording thing tonight? If Nancy is hot to trot to be there, so should we."  
  
"I daresay Sandra can get _me_ in easily enough. You, on the other hand…."  
  
"What?"  
  
The other three agents formed squares with their hands, looking at him pointedly.  
  
"Oh, very funny, ha ha, it is to laugh."  
  
"I'll make it so, don't worry about that."  
  
"Thanks, Illya. Turn in your notes, everyone. I'll go brief the Old Man."  
  
**  
  
Nancy smiled contentedly as her team unhooked an unconscious Nicky from the indoctrination chair and carried him out of the room. The "doctor" in charge of the process (used to be one, but evil overcame healing as it so often could) gave her the "thumbs-up" through the window before tidying up the room. She checked her watch. She could be home in half an hour, get some good sleep in before going to test out Nicky and prepare for the evening's festivities.  
  
The observation room door clicked open. "Good morning, Princess," Islington greeted as he stepped inside.  
  
"Daddy!" Nancy launched herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. "Oh, you're just the person I wanted to see!"  
  
"What's all the enthusiasm about?" he asked.  
  
"Tonight's the night-- we wrap up Phase One and go onto Phase Two! And U.N.C.L.E. doesn't have a clue about what we're really doing!" She hugged him again.  
  
"Don't be too sure about that, Princess. U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents are in town."  
  
She dropped the hug, and stepped back, annoyance caressing her features. She shook off the feeling after a moment. "I've not seen them anywhere."  
  
"That's why they're top agents, you know-- they're good at not being seen."  
  
"Well, they must be hear for some other reason. DeLaFleur's tsunami device, for example. In any case, there's no way anyone from the U.N.C.L.E. will be able to get into the recording session tonight. I'll nab myself a Beatle, a Rolling Stone, and perhaps even a Monkee, and--"  
  
"Monkee?"  
  
"Yeah. Two of them are in town this week, there's no way they'd miss the session."  
  
"But… they're not even a real band! They're just actors on some dumb teenage TV show."  
  
"Actors with enough musical credentials to be firmly entwined with the entire Los Angeles music scene."  
  
"Oh, I get it, today Britain, tomorrow the world." He perched on the recliner's arm.  
  
"Exactly. My plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity." Nancy took in her father's expression. "You don't seem too thrilled with the idea."  
  
"It's not that, Princess. Other things are weighing on my mind."  
  
"Anything I can help with?"  
  
"Well…" Islington hesitated. "It's your brother."  
  
"What about him? He's not consorting with U.N.C.L.E., is he?"  
  
"We don't know for sure. After last night's little deception, he could very well be."  
  
"Deception? What deception?"  
  
"The old put-music-on-to-hide-conversation trick. He and his girl were gone by the time the side ended. He still hadn't returned to his flat this morning."  
  
"And him drunk as a skunk, too, when I left him last night." She shook her head sadly. "Well, I have no qualms now about the little surprise I've arranged for him tonight. If he's even so much as _thinking_ about tattling, he deserves no mercy. And neither do the losers who go see him play his stupid music."  
  
Islington's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about, Julie?"  
  
"Oh, old theatres like the Saville are _such_ firetraps, wouldn't you agree? Especially with the amount of smoking going on inside. Why… it will surprise no one if the whole place went up in flames in the middle of a show. Tonight, for example."  
  
"You're planning on killing your brother in a staged fire?"  
  
"Yes. You have a problem with that, Daddy? He's all but a traitor to the cause. Get rid of him, and we get rid of a big pain in the ass." Nancy yawned. "I gotta go get some sleep. See you later, okay?" She kissed her father on the cheek and, grabbing her coat and purse, left the room.  
  
Islington stared after her, not liking what she had become, and liking less what he knew he had to do to save _both_ of his children.  
  
**  
  
"It's quite simple, Mr. Slate." The technician handed over radio-controlled detonator disguised as a cigarette pack. "I've wired in a circuit breaker here at the main lighting board. Press here--" he pointed at the brand logo-- "--and their triggers won't go off. No fire, no mess, no worries. Unless you're part of Thrush and banking on the explosion happening, of course." He chortled at his own joke.  
  
"And Thrush won't find the breaker before the show?"  
  
"Oh, no, we were quite clever, we went in as the Thrush cleaning crew. We had found a stash of Thrush overalls last month, you see, and--"  
  
"Great. Thanks a lot, Basington." Slate pocketed the transmitter and left the lab section before he could be caught up in one of Basington's famous half-hour explanations. He spotted his partner halfway down the corridor. "Hey, April, wait up!"  
  
Dancer waited for him to catch up. "How are things on your end?"  
  
"Smashing. Everything's good to go. I don't think we have much to worry about at this point. How's Johnny doing?"  
  
"Well, he's conscious-- finally. He isn't happy about it, though. The medical boys hopped him up on one of their special combos, so he should be more functional in a few minutes. About time, too-- sound check's supposed to start soon." She grinned ruefully. "Also, I'm tired of dragging him everywhere, so the more self-mobile he is now, the less my arms will hurt in the morning."  
  
Mark nodded sympathetically. "We've not long to go now. I'll see you at the Saville." He took his leave as April reached the medical corridor junction.  
  
**  
  
"A French Horn player?" Solo repeated, flabbergasted.  
  
Kuryakin shrugged. "It's what was laying around, at least according to Section VIII. It could be worse. It could be a flute, or a violin, or--"  
  
"I get the idea." Solo looked over Illya's notes. "OK, so I arrive at 8:30 and mingle with the orchestra personnel, you'll show up a little later and make like an international pop star, and we'll both see if we can get to Nancy before she gets to anyone else."  
  
"We will have teams watching both the recording studio and their office building, so even if she _does_ get someone, she won't get very far with him."  
  
"Or so we can hope. I'd better go see about my tux…."  
  
**  
  
Johnny stalked toward the stage door, hands in coat pocket and sour expression on his face. April could barely keep up with him. "You're in a cheerful mood," she commented.  
  
"Wouldn't you be, too, if you sold out your family's traditions?"  
  
"I thought you didn't care about them."  
  
"I don't. But that doesn't mean I want them stopped."  
  
Nancy stepped out of the shadows. "That's funny, I certainly want them stopped."  
  
Johnny stopped dead in his tracks. "Huh?"  
  
"Oh, you know exactly what I mean, big brother."  
  
"Brother?" April feigned surprise.  
  
Nancy sneered at her. "Don't play the innocent with me, bitch. If you're not actively an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you're sure as shit affiliated with them."  
  
Dancer managed to look shocked. Johnny, meanwhile, glared at Nancy. "So what if she is?"  
  
"What does the word 'traitor' mean to you?"  
  
"Traitor? Traitor to what? Outmoded ideas of power? Oh, yeah, what a bummer that must be for you, sis."  
  
"Traitor to the ideals your family have been nurturing for decades." Nancy sighed theatrically. "Still, I shouldn't have been surprised. You inherited our mother's stupidity as well as her musical ability."  
  
Johnny's mouth dropped; disbelief washed across his face. "What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Granddaddy had our mother killed, you know. She was trying to keep Daddy from joining full time, and was getting in the way. So that car crash? Wasn't an accident. Just like the fire tonight won't be an accident, although it will certainly _look_ like one to the authorities."  
  
"Fire? What fire?"  
  
Nancy smiled smugly. "Burn, baby, burn! And it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Really, Jonathan, salt of the earth, that's you all over. If you had only followed tradition, I wouldn't have had to resort to this. " She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I shouldn't even have told you _this_ much, but I wanted you to know that your death is by my hands, not Fate's. " She smiled again, then quickly kissed her brother on the cheek. "See ya in the next life!" She waggled her fingers at Johnny, flipped off April, and strolled down the alley with a bounce in her step.  
  
Johnny made sure she had turned the corner before saying, "God, I hope you guys stop her tonight, 'cause I'd really, _really_ like to see her have to explain her failure to her superiors. They don't take kindly to failure, you know."  
  
"So I hear."  
  
"Eh, let's just get this over with." He took her hand in his and, schooling his face, opened the stage door.  
  
**  
  
A church bell chimed seven as Islington turned the corner onto the street where the tailor shop entrance to U.N.C.L.E. HQ London could be found. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, re-adjusting his muffler to cover more of his face. It took far too long to put into motion certain contingencies to protect himself, his children, and his money. He only hoped that Thrush intelligence had placed Alexander Waverly in the proper location.  
  
He reached the tailor shop door just as the door agent locked it up. Pounding on it got him a shake of the head and a pointed finger indicating the "closed" sign. He pounded on it again; the agent took pity on his look of desperation and let him in. "We're closed, sir, but if--"  
  
"I must see Alexander Waverly immediately!"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I am Jonathan Harcourt Islington Jr., regional command staff of Thrush Central."  
  
"Of what? You been smokin' something funny, sir?"  
  
"Look, there's no time for this, thousands of lives are at stake! I must speak with Alexander Waverly!"  
  
Two U.N.C.L.E. agents rushed out of the fitting booth, guns drawn. "And so you shall," the taller one said. "We have express orders to take you to him… once we search you for weapons, of course."


	4. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can U.N.C.L.E. save the day before hundreds die in a faked fire... or a number of famous pop stars fall under Thrush's influence?

Some twenty minutes later, frisked within an inch of impropriety and relieved of his outerwear, Islington found himself facing the legendary Section I, Number 1 for North America. "Mr. Waverly, sir."  
  
Waverly looked up from his paperwork. "Young Islington, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"How is your father?"  
  
"In the throws of dementia these days, unfortunately."  
  
"Pity, that." He waved Islington into a seat. "Still, sit." He used the intercom to order tea service, then leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. "I believe you want to tell me about the ruse at the Saville Theatre."  
  
"That, and the plans involving the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Monkees, amongst other groups. A plan which--"  
  
"--is going into motion even as we speak, yes, yes, of course." A secretary brought in a pot of tea, two cups, and a selection of finger sandwiches. Waverly thanked her, then poured for both. "Are we going to consider this a full defection or just an insider tip?"  
  
Islington swallowed. "Full defection, as long as neither of my children are harmed… much."  
  
"Ah, I see. How sharper than a serpent's tooth--"  
  
"That would be my Julie to a tee." He accepted the cup from Waverly and helped himself to a sandwich.  
  
Waverly set a recorder running. "Proceed, then, Mr. Islington."  
  
"Well, Julie has been setting up young men for about a month now, calling herself 'Nancy' and…."  
  
**  
  
Solo tagged onto the end of a small group of tuxedoed brass players entering the cavernous recording studio. A hulking, earnest-looking young man in glasses, a moustache, and a floral tie greeted the musicians by handing them party hats, masks, and the odd rubber clown nose. "Part of the festivities," he assured Solo as he handed him a jester hat.  
  
"Gee, thanks, I'll treasure it always." He stuck the hat on a microphone as he worked his way to the corner of the room where the orchestra was setting up. Some forty classical musicians arranged themselves around a conductor's podium. Also in front of the podium, several young men with Arriflex cameras squatted, intent on filming The Great Conductor as he prepared. Said Great Conductor sported an apron, a flowered shirt, a striped tie, a goofy-looking moustache, and a glass of red wine. "That's it, you lot, settle in," he called out in a soft Liverpudlian accent. "We'll be up and running as soon as the vibes are right!"  
  
"Oh ho, Sir Paul McCartney, the world's foremost authority on classical music." John Lennon sketched a bow, peering at his bandmate over the rims of his National Health glasses. "Or is that the world's foremost authority on being an arse?"  
  
Paul flashed him the "up yours." John cackled maniacally and drifted back toward the makeshift bar along one wall of the studio.  
  
Napoleon worked on making his hesitation at assembling the horn resemble deliberate, slow-but-steady precision. Darn Illya for having a such a solid connection-- in a proper assignment, Illya would be the one wrestling with an instrument and Napoleon would be the one at the bar surrounded by all those lovely ladies in their figure-hugging velvets and their curve-caressing satins. He should, however, be able to get through the evening enjoying his partner's discomfort from afar. (Or so he told himself.)  
  
**  
  
Illya kept his appreciation of his partner's annoyance to himself. Instead, he nursed a glass of wine and let Sandy do most of the talking. Her social circle included her fellow bandmates, George Harrison, Peter Asher, Mike and Phyllis Nesmith, and Brian Epstein. Marianne Faithfull roamed around the room blowing bubbles through a clay pipe. Several young men wandered around shooting 16mm film stock with cameras handed out by one of the Beatles' entourage. Mick Jagger and John Lennon were deep in conversation, every so often glancing over at Paul on the podium and snorting with amusement. The pungent smell of incense filled the air, both adding an other-worldly aura to the proceedings and hiding a multitude of illegal smoking sins.   
  
Sandy's posture straightened suddenly; the atmosphere turned cold as several of the others looked over toward the door and noticed the new arrivals. Nancy came in, holding onto Nicky's arm and looking very much like the cat that had gotten into the cream. Nicky seemed overly attentive to the brunette, not at all the bon vivant of the previous evening. She whispered something into his ear; he nodded and pasted a pale imitation of his usual cheerful grin on his face. Satisfied with his change in expression, she brought him into the room proper, parading the perimeter as if showing off a new Easter bonnet. They stopped just short of the bar, picking out a pair of rickety chairs from which to survey the scene.  
  
After a few moments head-to-head, Nancy abandoned her date in favor of approaching the podium and taking up with Paul. Upon seeing her move, Illya passed his wine glass to Sandy and excused himself from the group. He waylaid Sandy's brother long enough to borrow his camera; he worked his way to the orchestral part of the room pretending to randomly film people.  
  
"Honestly, love, I'd love to take a ride, but-- can't it wait until afters?" Paul gave Nancy his most disarming grin. "All these stuffed penguins don't come cheaply, even for a Beatle."  
  
"Ooh, at least a quickie? For inspirational value?"  
  
"Well, if you put it like that---"  
  
Illya lowered the camera. "Watch it, mate, she's given three geezers the clap in the past week alone."  
  
Paul looked at Nancy in a new light. "Ah… so _that_ explains the revolving door on your bedroom."  
  
"He's a liar. He's just jealous 'cause I won't touch him. I'm working my way _up_ the ladder, not down." She wrapped her arm around Paul's.   
  
Paul immediately disengaged himself. "Nancy, really-- let's continue this later, all right? I have a crescendo to conduct."  
  
"I'll take care of her for you." Illya grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.  
  
"Get your hands off of me, you smelly little…." Nancy dug her heels in suddenly, causing Illya to jerk back into her. "U.N.C.L.E. agent! Of course! The great Illya Kuryakin, I presume, because that's certainly the infamous Napoleon Solo lurking about in the brass section." She pointed toward the other agent with a flourish.  
  
"And if I am?"  
  
"Oh, you're about to get a great surprise. Sweet dreams."  
  
"What?" He felt a small pinch on the back of his neck; almost immediately, his eyelids lowered and he collapsed.  
  
Nicky, who had snuck up behind him to hand deliver the sleep dart, caught him as he slumped.  
  
"Ooh, you're right, Nicky, too much celebrating," Nancy said loudly. "We'd better get him outside for some fresh air." She took one of Illya's arms and helped Nicky maneuver him out of both the studio and building.  
  
Once outside in the February cold, she pushed Illya off to a waiting Thrush operative. "Don't go far-- we'll have another one for you in a moment."  
  
Sure enough, Solo emerged a few seconds later, Special drawn and all senses alert. He certainly didn't expect Nancy to catch him in a rather passionate kiss… nor did he expect to be felled by the same sleep dart method his partner was. Another Thrush operative collected Solo's inert form. Nancy patted Nicky on the bottom and commanded him to go back inside and have a good time before hopping into the fake delivery van with the rest of her crew.  
  
As the van drove off, the head of the U.N.C.L.E. surveillance team described the scene in detail to Mr. Waverly.  
  
**  
  
"-- excellent news, Mr. Waverly. I'll signal Mark to disable the incendiary devices. Channel 'M' out." April tucked her communicator back in her purse, dug out her compact, and used the mirror to flash a signal to her partner. A moment later, a loud "pop" reverberated over the Johnny Thrush Demolition set and all the power cut out in the theatre. Although emergency lights snapped on almost immediately, the crowd still panicked, screams of fear mixing with the hoofs of stampeding crowds trying to get out of the venue as fast as possible.  
  
"What the hell was that all about?" Johnny demanded as he came off the stage with his guitar slung over his back. The other band members stayed on stage, playing with their lighters, and trying to encourage those in the closest seats not to leave just yet.  
  
"Securing the theatre from Thrush's plans, that's all." April produced a small flashlight and turned it on. "It was felt it was safest to blow the electricity rather than risk so many innocent lives by keeping the devices powered up even a little."  
  
"You could have warned me."  
  
"Actually, we had hoped that we could have disrupted the power _before_ the show even started. Things were slow in coming together over at the Beatles' session, apparently."  
  
  
"So now what?"  
  
Mark, armed with his own flashlight, joined them. "April, love, we're about to miss the big confrontational scene. We'd better fly."  
  
"Sorry, Johnny, gotta go." She patted his cheek apologetically.  
  
"Wait! Big confrontational scene? Does that mean you've captured my sister?"  
  
"Actually," Mark corrected, "Your sister has captured two of our top agents. Won't last, though, not with her lair surrounded by U.N.C.L.E."  
  
"Can I come with?"  
  
April raised an eyebrow. "What, in the middle of your show?"  
  
"It's not like we can play without our amps."  
  
"You could do an acoustic set."  
  
"I want to see my sister brought down."  
  
"Family loyalty…." Mark smirked.  
  
"Ok, Johnny, you're with us. Let's get moving! I won't mind seeing Nancy brought down, either…."  
  
**  
  
The sharp bite of restraints cutting into his wrists awoke Solo from his induced slumber. His hands had been tied behind him, secured to something equally fleshy and twitchy that Solo automatically assumed was his partner. Pinkies tapped a reassuring code to each other; Kuryakin made a big show of groaning awake so that Solo could assess their situation more privately.  
  
Nancy fell for the bait. "So, The Great Mr. Kuryakin awakes. Enjoy it while you can."  
  
"Going to kill me so soon? Without even an attempt to get information out of me? How dull."  
  
Solo noted a machine on a small table that bore more than a passing resemblance to a number of U.N.C.L.E. psychological tools-- the detraining device, the subliminal trainer, the lie detector. Combined with the presence of an older gentleman in a while lab coat prepping a syringe with a vaguely purple liquid, Solo had a pretty good idea what Nancy had planned for them. In order to distract her further, he decided not to fake sleep any longer. "You would think we would rate at least a monomaniacal monologue. I mean, we _are_ pretty important enemy combatants and all."  
  
"An alliteration, Napoleon, I'm suitably impressed."  
  
"Thank you, Illya."  
  
"Oh, you're quite welcome, Napoleon."  
  
Nancy smiled serenely at both of them. "Gentlemen, you're not going to rattle me. And I'm not going to tell you a thing before we begin our little procedure. Well, except that you absolutely deserve every bit of pain, every bit of humiliation the rest of your no-doubt short life will bring you. Doctor Lyle, if you would please begin."  
  
"Yes, Miss Islington." Doctor Lyle approached Solo. "Don't worry, this won't hurt. Much. Just bare your neck a bit, yes, that's it, let the juggler pop up nice and prominent. Oh, come on, cooperate just a little-- it will go easier on both of us if you--"  
  
The office door flew open; a pair of U.N.C.L.E. sleep darts crumpled both Doctor Lyle and Nancy before they had fully realized the door had opened. Slate tucked his weapon back in its holster, while Dancer temporarily tucked hers into her bra. Behind them, a small U.N.C.L.E. clean-up crew swarmed in, cataloging equipment and supplies as they packed it all up for transport.  
  
April grinned, nudging her partner in the ribs to have him play along. "So, looks like I have to rescue you again, boys. This is getting to be a habit."  
  
"Giant toaster," Kuryakin countered.  
  
"Oh, yes, we managed to get _ourselves_ out of that one, didn't we, Mark?"  
  
"Easy-peasy. And yet here you two are, flummoxed by a simple pair of handcuffs. It _is_ handcuffs, isn't April?"  
  
"Let's see." She inspected the bindings. "Ooh, ropes! How embarrassing!"  
  
"Just undo us, huh, April?" Solo asked.  
  
"Oh, you're no fun any more!" She quickly undid the ropes.  
  
Johnny, who had been somewhat forgotten in the rush, wandered into the room, spotting the prone form of his sister almost immediately. "Hey! She's not dead, is she?"  
  
"Not at all. Just knocked out," Mark assured. him  
  
"Bummer!"  
  
**  
  
The following morning, the four agents arrived at Waverly's temporary office to find Johnny already there, in deep conversation with his father. "Interesting development," Solo remarked as he took a seat. "Full defection?"  
  
"Indeed, Mr. Solo."  
  
Islington broke off his chat with his son. "Gentlemen. Miss Dancer. I've always known this day would come. I can't tell you how relieved I am that no one actually died in the course of it."  
  
April quickly counted up victims in her head. "You're right! Everybody lives!"  
  
"Although they might not like themselves too much once they realize how they were duped," Mark added.  
  
Waverly harrumphed, "Our psychology team reports that, with the notes discovered in the Thrush office complex, they should be able to back track the treatments and restore all the young gentlemen's autonomy. Miss Islington, on the other hand, is already proving to be a tough nut to crack."  
  
Islington added, "That's my Julie, all right. Takes after her grandfather in more ways than one. Anything I can help with, Mr. Waverly, say the word."  
  
"Actually, we could use some verification of certain pieces of information. If you'll accompany me…?" Waverly stood, gathered some papers together, and led Islington out of the office. In the doorway, however, he turned back to his agents. "I expect to see all of you in my office in New York on Monday afternoon for further debriefing."  
  
The door slid shut behind him and Islington. The agents exchanged glances. "Did he just give us all the weekend off?" Mark wondered.  
  
"Well, all work and no play makes an U.N.C.L.E. agent likely to get blown away."  
  
The other three glared at Kuryakin.  
  
"It's true!" he defended. "And, speaking of play, I've been invited to go along when the Honeybears play live on Radio One later this morning…." He vacated the room with a wave.  
  
Slate and Dancer exchanged glances. "Breakfast!" Mark said the same time as April said, "Shopping!" They raised eyebrows at each other. "Both!" they exclaimed in unison. "Either of you want to come?" April added kindly.  
  
"Um, I don't think I'm supposed to leave yet," Johnny said. "Something about having to wait until added security is in place back at my pad…."  
  
Solo raised a finger in preparation for dealing himself in on the food part at least. April cut him off with a sweet, "I'm sure Mr. Solo will be glad to keep you company, Johnny." She and Mark hightailed it out before she could be contradicted.  
  
Solo gave Johnny a forced smile, thinking furiously. Obvious solution: passing the buck. "Say, Johnny, why don't we go see what they're doing to your sister? Then you and your dad and Mr. Waverly can discuss further plans."  
  
"Is she being tortured."  
  
"Not at the moment."  
  
"Bummer. I want to see her squirm. Just like she made me squirm when we were growing up."  
  
"Surely she couldn't have been _that_ bad?"  
  
"Oh, no, not if you _like_ rattlesnakes in your bed… or in your snowboots… or in your underpants…."  
  
"Hah. No wonder she was a Thrush rising star…." Solo gestured for Johnny to proceed him out of the room.


End file.
